The following is a passage selected from Chapter 10 of The Record Keeper:

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Easter dinner is here, and I decide to go radio silent when it comes to sharing anything family tree related. I need more time. I was quick to accept Linda’s testimony, but will they? Will they say they can’t believe someone I only know through the internet? Will they refute the DNA and say it’s flat out wrong? No matter how much I try to plan for their questions and anticipate their protests, I resign myself to the fact that revealing this long-buried secret will come with consequences. Whenever it comes to light, there will be consequences. The reality is it is currently my problem to decide if or when and how.

Choosing to keep quiet or tell what I know is surprisingly an easy choice today. It is neither the time nor the place.

I will not be responsible for ruining a perfectly nice Easter. And processing out loud to my dad and our other close family members prematurely could mean being a tour-guide to a full-blown, four-alarm family identity crisis I’m woefully unprepared to take on at the moment.

I make small talk with the relatives starting to gather in my parent’s living room and we make our way to the kitchen and dining room. They all seem so happy and content. Just going about their business: it’s another season, another family holiday, everything is the same. They all know the same stories, understand the same lineage and heritage just like I did mere days before. Now they are innocent bystanders to the bloodline grenade I could toss into the family tree. I could just chuck it in there and run for cover.

Maybe there is some Family-Secret Burden transfer of power or something I didn’t know existed which takes place when another family member (Enter: me) unwittingly unlocks a life-altering secret the original person (Grandma Boreman) was carrying. A magical portal to unleash all the burden of secret-keeping on the unfortunate opener, too curious for their own good.

Just act normal, I remind myself, as I take my seat around the dinner table. My dad says a prayer to bless the meal, and we start buttering rolls and passing the dish of candied carrots and the serving platter of pineapple crowned ham slices. We all dig in and try not to eat too much for the meal; there are plenty of desserts to enjoy later. I grab a couple of colorful hard-boiled eggs from a white bowl in the middle of the table, their swirling bright blues and greens dyed by my children with my mom a few days before. I give them a good crack and focus on peeling them to avoid a mess of teeny eggshell pieces and chunks of perfectly good egg that could join them if I’m not careful.

Jason knows. At some point I will have to bring it up to the people it will directly affect. I expected Jason to plant my feet firmly on the ground and tell me I was overreacting when I explained this new revelation, but even he was convinced. Couldn’t my husband have the decency to argue with me and tell me I was completely wrong the one time I needed him to?

My egg-peeling concentration is interrupted by my little sister (yet tallest) sitting across from me. “Hey Ali, have you found out anything else about that girl Sylvia you found a picture of? She looks so much like dad…” she asks, offhandedly taking a swig of her ice water and waiting for my answer.

Panicking, I give an emphatic “Nope!”, smother the egg with salt, and shove half of it in my mouth. No one will suspect a thing. “Stull lukin’ into eht.” I say, my cheeks full of iodized-sprinkled, chalky egg as I grab my sweet tea to wash it down.

I glance at my two sisters at the table. I’m the oldest and a redhead. Samantha is the middle—a brunette—while the youngest, Elizabeth is a blonde. I recall a story my mom told us about how a stranger at the grocery store asked her if we all had the same father. Even with our hair color differences, we never gave a second thought to the idea of not being fully related to one another.

While we have obvious differences beyond the natural hair color, there is more than just DNA to prove we are full siblings. Our humor, mannerisms, the sound of our voices, how we fight: we’re sisters.

But say my daughter came to me when I was pushing 58 and told me she was sure the two sisters I had were actually my half-sisters, and oh, by the way, you have an additional seven—SEVEN—more sisters because your dad really isn’t your dad…well, I don’t even know how I’d respond.

I imagine I’d have a lot of questions.

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